Whet
by ChaosViper
Summary: Soul and Maka discover more resourceful applications for her weapon's sharper extremities. Belated Christmas present for Marsh of Sleep, because she gets what she wants and I question nothing.
1. Ladies in their Sensitivities

**1. Ladies in their Sensitivities**

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><p>Normally, a hot shower is just what the doctor ordered after the completion of a successful mission. She takes advantage of this luxury more often than not, as kishin tend to frequent densely populated areas, wherein lie an abundance of appetizing souls and luxury hotels.<p>

However, the invasion of a small Asian province means the pickings are rather slim. There is only one inn for miles in any direction, and the concept of a hot, steaming shower, let alone a decently-sized bathtub, seems to be a foreign idea to local architects.

There's nothing wrong with oriental-styled hinoki bathtubs. Being small in stature has its advantages, and her petite form has little problem with the inability to fully stretch her legs. But to her dismay, it's extremely difficult to completely submerge, and the sensation of being restricted to pouring water over her head is a less-than-preferable alternative to washing away achy muscles.

The wood of the bath smells like cedar, but she can't get over how small of a space she's been given. It's a fraction of the size of her bathroom at the apartment, and the lack of a secure lock on the paper-thin fusuma door means that almost anyone could walk in and…

"Pee! Pee! Gotta pee-ee!"

Her weapon completely disregards her naked presence, or mentally misses it entirely, as the door is nearly ripped asunder from its track. She's too flabbergasted to utter anything at first, but since the washroom is westernized enough to have a working toilet included in its space-conscious construction, his pants are already down, bladder nearly done evacuating its contents, by the time she gets around to freaking out properly.

"S-S-SOUL!"

The water in the tub overflows onto the floor as she sinks in as deep as she can. Soul realizes he's inadvertently intruded on one of her most private moments, but nature is calling, and his body demands the immediate gratification of certain biological functions over the modesty of his mortified meister.

Besides, he's seen her naked before. Not that he can see much in the reflection of the steamed-up bathroom mirror. Pants around his ankles, the exposure of the scythe's bare buns of steel elicits the most delightfully rosy glow from her cheeks. He smirks in egotistical triumph.

She's fun to get flustered. Like when he shakes his junk once he's finished, and she fumbles for something to cover her face. She settles on a pink loofah, but the hue of it matches the inflammed color of her skin.

He feels better. She takes his deep sigh as a sign that he's finished and about to leave the room. Except, when the water stops running, he's still standing there, gaping intensely at himself in the mirror, rubbing his cheeks with the back of his hand.

"Are you finished yet?"

Her sudden exclamation causes him to jump slightly, but she doesn't see it. Of course he's finished. And normally, he'd leave immediately. But after a restless afternoon of piss-nasty sake and unintelligible sports programming with the owner down in the lobby, he's not immediately concerned with making a hasty retreat. Especially when Maka has forgotten to update his ass on when hers will no longer be clothed, and she's looking absolutely scrumptious from what he can see above the waterline.

He hasn't teased her in a while. He supposes it's as good a time as any.

He pretends to assess the stubble on his face again. It's really not that bad, as he shaved right before they left Death City not three days prior. There's enough of that sandpaper sensation to make him think that needing a shave is a viable excuse, because really, she is always complaining that it feels way too rough on her skin when they kiss.

His maiden likes him smooth. Thus, he will oblige her.

Neither one of them brought razors, as this was intended to be a relatively short trip. However, he's a resourceful bastard, and frankly, who needs a razor when you're a scythe, for goodness sake?

It takes a minute, but Maka's attempts to distract herself from her impromptu company improve when she realizes he's no longer looking at her. He's completely occupied by the task at hand, which involves lathering some floral herbal bath soaps all around the bottom of his face. She decides not to inform him that he'll probably smell of hibiscus and oranges for the remainder of the trip, but the combination of this flowery scent with his personal choice of cologne proves to be not an all-together unpleasant bombardment to her olfactory senses.

Three fingers of one hand transform into a single zigzagged blade. She's fascinated to see him scrape away the suds and the stubble from his cheeks like a pro, and wonders how he's become so adept to not cut himself a million times over. Then again, his entire body is a weapon, capable of becoming solid steel at a moment's notice. She mentally punches herself for forgetting that piece of information and continues to observe in earnest.

She's starting to relax again, and by the time he's finished and wiping his mouth with a wet towel, she returns the smug smirk he shoots her way from across the steamy room. He looks less like a hoodlum without traces of white stubble adorning his features, and she can't help but reach out her hand to demand the first taste of her weapon's hairless face.

He grins when he notices her purposely placed arm blocking his immediate view of her breasts. However, the record shows that Maka's receptivity to his advances increases substantially when he openly cares about his personal hygiene. He hopes that their immediate proximity, and his new-found smoothness, can encourage a particular type of behavior from his favorite female specimen. But sometimes, that's easier said than done.

Her other hand is a raisin, but feels incredibly soft against the fresh skin of his cheek. She doesn't touch him for long, though, because modesty is still one of her greatest virtues. She really should get around to cleaning herself, as sitting in a bath for too long certainly can't be productive to their mission.

"Soul, if you're done, could you-?"

"Let me join you?"

She doesn't have time to respond, let alone think about his proposition, before his clothing is hastily thrown to various corners of the room. He purposely paid extra for the suite for a reason, but if she won't invite him in personally, he'll have to convince her that sharing a steam bath with a Death Scythe can be an excellent...no, invigorating idea.

She really should protest, but somehow, denying a naked and enthusiastic Soul the right to share a bath with her must be a capital offense somewhere in the world. As she's not partial to the idea of doing without "hard time", or regretting the opportunity to appease her growing curiosity at his eagerness to spend time with her, she takes his request to "Move over?" as an invitation rather than an inconvenience.

The tub is small and roughly square. As he lifts one leg into the water beside her, the realization that he's underestimated exactly how much mobility will be afforded them once he's inside rears its ugly head. Sitting with her knees to her chest, Maka alone takes up a great amount of space. She's still blushing and trying to hide the more interesting parts of her body from his field of vision. It's endearing and extremely fucking cute. But how does she expect him to entertain her if she keeps playing the modesty card?

He's just going to have to invade her territory, and hope the border patrol isn't on duty.

He sinks into the water relatively easily, more liquid overflowing the confines of the tub as his body mass takes up its former space. Two muscular legs place themselves on either side of her minuscule form, and the inside of his warm, dense thighs constrict around the outside of hers. He lets out a strangely effeminate sigh as the heat from the water works its way into his tired, taut muscles. She often forgets how much the exertion of battle takes it toll on his body, too, and seeing him let go so unapologetically is something she could definitely get used to.

He seems content to merely sit like this in her presence. That is, until she feels his toes ghost their way to the small of her back, drawing her closer until she's directly in front of the part of him she was trying to avoid until now. It looks weird underwater, and she gulps heavily _because it's Soul's penis__**.**_Even though said enigma has been inside her on more than one occasion, the fact that she's sitting between his bent knees, so close to the object in question under anything less than passionate circumstances, the entire situation is much more _casual_than what she's used to. She's slow like a child, unsure if their mutual nakedness is okay, even though his actions thus far have been everything but supportive of the contrary.

He asks her questions, borderline conversational, as if they are meteorologists discussing the finer points of cumulus formations within the lower troposphere. "How are you feeling?" "Have you seen my bike keys?" "Do you mind if I touch every single accessible inch of your body before I start making unmanly noises?"

The last one is mere speculation, because it is his eyes and not his mouth proposing this specific idea, via openly obvious body language that not even a dog could misinterpret. She can't help but notice the impatience in his eyes, and while he is extremely patient with her, he wants her to loosen up, for goodness sake, because they have all the time in the world.

Her legs are starting to cramp from hiding her breasts like a sissy. Being the astute meister that she's unknowingly trained him to be concerning her emotions, he takes it upon himself to make her more comfortable and provide himself with the view that he so desperately desires. Grabbing her legs in his palms, she momentarily resists the tug of his hands with a whimper before giving in and allowing him to direct the backs of her knees to his broad, comfortable shoulders.

"That better?"

She has to admit that it is, as her legs can stretch completely without restriction. Except, now he can see everything with a literal front row seat to her most intimate and embarrassing places. She can't cover her breasts without making it obvious, nor can she cross her legs without choking him to death. A fine conundrum for someone of her level of intelligence, but she knows better than to deny her weapon's open advances toward her well-being and comfort. Especially when he begins running strong, firm hands up and down the expanses of her legs and arms within reachable distance, making it extremely difficult to think straight or keep the light mewling utterances to herself.

Strong hands stroke her calves, working their way up to soft, supple thighs that she can't help but spread further with each deep caress. He seems to instinctively know the location of all her important trigger points, and she can literally feel the tension, and her sanity, melting away with every pass of deft fingers and eager palms.

He comments on how soft and smooth her legs are, but jokingly suggests that she consider shaving them before she tries to wear a skirt again.

"But I didn't bring a razor, remembe-eerr...oohhh..."

Her declaration tapers off as he spends an increasing amount of time massaging away loose muscles at the apex of her thighs. She's blushing redder than an apple, letting loose inaudible gasps and groans as he draws ever closer to that special place of no return. The one that always turns her to mush; the one she could never hope to hide from those inquisitive and questing hands.

A distraction. That's what she needs. Something to tide him over so she can catch her bearings and regain control of the situation. As quickly as humanly possible, before she falls apart at the seams.

This time, she asks the question. The sound is so weak and small, he asks if she will repeat it again for clarification.

"Can I borrow you for a minute?"

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><p>c h a o s v i p e r . t u m b l r . c o m<p>

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><p><em>More by the end of the week (hopefully). I have no practical knowledge of Asian bathing facilities, so if I've used any terminology or concepts incorrectly, please let me know. And most importantly, don't hurt me.<em>


	2. Epiphany

**2. Epiphany**

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><p>"Borrow me?"<p>

"Your hand."

"My hand."

"...fingers."

"Like this?"

His eager digits worm their way to the apex of her warmth, teasing her opening with measured swirls and caresses to pink flesh, but not entering. She grabs his arms for purchase at the unexpected ministration, squeaking an almost-audible "not that" in retaliation. Despite her mouth's denial, she finds her legs spreading further, the backs of her knees hugging the outside of the tub with the strength of an athlete used to utilizing them well.

Taking his wandering hand hostage and subsequently whining in pseudo-protest at the loss of his touch, she folds his thumb and pinkie into his palm and straightens the middle digits to mimic his gesture from earlier. Momentary confusion is replaced by obvious realization when he discerns exactly what she means - his hand can become a blade, and she wants it to be used on herself.

She can't believe she's suggesting this. "I don't have anything to do it with, but you're a...um-"

"Oh, you want me to...?"

She doesn't confirm or deny his partial inquiry, but instead searches blindly for the misplaced loofah from her earlier embarrassment. She finds it shoved somewhere between the underside of his leg and the bottom of the tub, and a momentary struggle has it quickly dislodged from its underwater entrapment.

She quickly realizes, to her dismay, that her body wash might as well be back in Death City with how inconvenient it would be to snatch it from its resting place by the sink. The perpetual virgin in her (or is it the minx?) realizes how much she would have to reveal by getting out and letting him see every inch of her naked body. The practical analyst in her realizes that his scented shampoo will suit her purposes just fine.

He sinks as low as he can into the water so that her feet can rest easily on the tops of his shoulders. This involves lifting her out of the water momentarily, two large palms finding their way to the backs of her legs, and situating himself so he can make them both more comfortable. He stretches his legs out beneath her so that she's more or less sitting on his calves. Her feet can now find leverage on two broad shoulders, and his hands still groping her ass make her squirm impatiently in his grasp.

He watches, interested, as she pops the cap off of the container and squeezes a glob of the fragrant white stuff into the soft, pink sponge in her palm. Somehow, the motion makes one part of his brain wander, while another part laughs at the implication.

Her soapy hands find the skin of her shins and begin their work lathering the white substance into their smooth contours. Soul watches curiously at the manner in which she prepares her own skin for this familiar process. Her pores are much bigger than his own, and he can see goose bumps begin to form on their surface. The air of the bathroom is steamy and the exact opposite of cold, so this phenomenon is most likely the result of his presence rather than a lack of heat in the vicinity. He chuckles inwardly and palms her rear with renewed interest.

She spends entirely too long trying to rub the suds into her DNA. Initiating the next stage of Project Primp Maka, he pulls one hand from the water and takes her tiny ankle into the grasp of his large palm, shooting her a gaze that inquires "May I?" It takes her a moment to nod in acquiescence, but once she does, her face is already pinker than Mr. Loofah's plastic.

A spark of illuminated energy reveals his fingers have turned into blades that could cleave a chunk of meat in two. Normally, they are weapons against their enemies. Today, they'll be performing a service to her skin. She shivers nervously. Or maybe in anticipation. Perhaps a healthy combination of both.

He looks to her to take the next step. "Guide me."

She nods, her hand coming over his to place the blade nearly perpendicular to her flesh. She mimics its placement from his earlier example on his own stubble. No, never straight on, he instructs her silently. Do it at an angle. Let it scrape from the side. Yes. That's it. Just like that. Slowly...

He starts at her ankle. That seems like the most logical place. His skin underneath her hand is warm in her palm, but the steel of his blade is cold, sending further shivers to race up and down her spine against her will. It's so sharp. It's so dangerous. If he weren't her weapon, it could cut her ankle off in an instant. The possibility alone allows a glimmer of fear to peak at the very back of her mind.

The first scrape of the blade against her skin almost tickles. It works its way shortly up her leg, gathering suds and prickles of darker-than-blond hair along with it. Then he pulls it back to glide some more. He guides the blade from here on out, but she controls the pressure of it against her flesh. It tingles. It tickles. It feels good. It doesn't hurt. It could hurt, she reminds herself. However, he's in control, and he won't let it, because he likes the feel of this part of himself gliding smoothly against her skin. It's sensory overload, for both of them.

It's like he's touching her lightly with his fingers. When she closes her eyes, she can convince herself he is. He likes the way it makes her entire body tingle, from the way her toes twitch to the little tremble she's developed in her bottom lip. He can feel her shiver up the blade, and it's a weird sensation, and instigates what's supposed to be his calming leg stroking from earlier. It only serves to make her squirm more violently in his almost-lap.

He finishes one calf and moves on to the other. She'd getting used to having the (second) most dangerous part of her weapon flow freely against the exposed pink of her blushing flesh. She's as prostrate as can be in the tub, with both arms dangling off the sides of the structure and her feet planted firmly on the edge of the cedar behind his shoulders. One might think she was relaxed to have him service her. However, both of them know that she's still a squeaking, squirming mess, especially when he begins running shampoo along the insides of her thighs vigorously.

She must admit that his hands feel good there, as the movements of his palms apply more pressure than on her calves, working more knots out of taught muscles and saturating her skin in fragrant, bubbly suds with each measured caress. For a moment, she forgets about the premise of his actions, and wonders the fate of Mr. Loofah, until the blade begins working against her skin again, and her chest does the flip-floppy thing she's become accustomed to.

He starts at her knee on one leg, and moves slowly but assuredly up toned quadriceps and further into the interior of her thigh. He's careful and studious, taking the utmost of care not to cut her by keeping his strokes calculated and avoiding too much pressure. Her breathing becomes more ragged the further in he goes. Oh god, he's almost...He uses one hand to hold open her leg to gain access to the place where thigh and pelvis meet, and she gasps audibly when the sides of his fingers accidentally graze her womanhood. He apologizes, but she wonders if he's actually serious.

He's teasing her now. The same process of slick movements and excruciating suspense is repeated on her other leg. With every stroke of the blade intended to leave her skin smooth and silky to the touch, his other hand continues its task of making every square inch of her body a mass of sensitive synapses and tingling tissue.

"You okay?" His question catches her off guard, but she doesn't have any length of time to answer as he nudges her legs further apart with his knees. At first she thinks it's because he wants to settle between them, but when his eyes switch between meeting her gaze and glaring at the flesh of her womanhood barely visible beneath the suds on the water's surface, the blush on her face tells him exactly how his meister feels about his sudden intentions. He's enjoying every passing moment, but eagerly awaits to see what she'll do next.

His hands fall to her thighs again and perform more miracles that leave her groaning beneath him. He's discovered a new weapon, one that doesn't require a sharp edge, because as long as his hands continue to move further inward toward the source of her desire, she doesn't seem to care what his naughtier intentions are. The warm water does nothing to ease the ache - a dull but incessant pounding somewhere between her legs. As his fingers graze nearer the place where her muscular legs join her reproductive organs, the deeper the part of her brain that actually cares about resistance is thrown into the inferno.

She needs to relax, he says with his eyes. She knows this all too well. However, how is it possible when a second circulatory system has developed in the place where his penis is meant to go? Maybe he should help her along, and find a solution to the unyielding pulse.

He wastes no more time doing so. She's nearly crawling up the side of the tub with how much she squirms, and he uses the opportunity to sit the backs of her legs on his knees so that her lower half is lifted, up, almost out of the water. Her skin protests at the immediate contrast in temperature, but his continued massaging of her legs and labia quells the intensity of her complaint.

Before she falls backward, her hands grasp the edge of the tub so that her upper torso is no longer submerged. She's balancing on a precipice halfway between Soul's knees and the edge of the bath, using both hands and feet to remain erect and as high out of the water as possible. To her dismay, her pussy is on full display, and Soul's pointer finger-turned scythe seems extremely ominous in comparison to the rescued Mr. Loofah in his other hand. So that's where he'd been...

When he'd lathered up her pink companion with glorious shampoo, she doesn't recall. The only thing she can logically conceive is the added sensation of pink, spongy plastic working slick bubbles into the tender flesh and coarse hair between her legs. The subsequent knowing smirk adorning the handsome face of her partner is the only thing that can break her concentration to simply _feel,_, but even that doesn't work for very long.

"Sooulll...mmnngghh…"

"Yeah, Maka?"

"No-not my..."

He passes the loofah directly over the bundle of nerves she's trying to make him avoid. "Clit?"

Her foot nearly slips at the sensation, and she nods with a resounding "Mmm-yeah!" to the ceiling. Kissing the inside of her leg in apology, Soul readies his pointed digit in preparation for what's to come.

"Stay...still." He settles her quivering thigh with another squeeze of his hand, and uses the same means to hold open her leg at the knee, hoping to prepare her mentally and physically for further scrutiny from the mini-scythe protruding where his finger should be.

The initial sensation of steel against flesh in such close proximity to her sex makes her jump dangerously high. It might only be an inch, but with Soul's scythe literally inches from sensitive and trembling flesh, she screams internally at ever giving him the opportunity to do this in the first place.

His face is _right there_, studying his work with diligence and careful precision. His breath ghosts against her opening, and it takes everything in her not to shove his mouth exactly where she needs it most. Maybe if he wasn't busy slowly scraping used soap and its contents away from the most sensitive part of her body at a snail's pace, she would do just that.

Instead, she'll settle for the warm puffs of air he blows onto her clean skin, because her flesh is hot, tingling, and the need for him to touch her more is spiraling out of control.

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><p>c h a o s v i p e r . t u m b l r . c o m<p> 


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